


All The Rocket Ships Are Climbing Through The Sky

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Dean Winchester is a touch slut, Embarrassed Dean, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Innuendo, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Top Jack, Unrequited Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 12:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2269254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are different levels of drinking, and tonight Dean is aiming to be the eye of the hurricane: a still, smooth point of clarity separate from the storm. No chaos, no darkness, no destruction. Just peace.</p>
<p>Admittedly, he does a shitty job of it. If he wants to extend the metaphor (and he doesn’t, but it happens anyway) Dean’s more likely to be a nasty storm in his own right. He’s the deep, blood red you don’t want to see on the radar.</p>
<p>He flags down the bartender, who pours him another double. Dean downs half of it the minute it hits his hand.</p>
<p>“Working up to something or trying to forget?”</p>
<p>Dean blinks, tilts his head to glance over at the man who’s settled onto the stool beside him. Broad. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Definitely a few miles on him, though he carries it pretty well.</p>
<p>“Nice coat,” he says, and gives him a little up-nod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Rocket Ships Are Climbing Through The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Ain't No Cure For Love" by Leonard Cohen.

There are different levels of drinking, and tonight Dean is aiming to be the eye of the hurricane: a still, smooth point of clarity separate from the storm. No chaos, no darkness, no destruction. Just peace.

Admittedly, he does a shitty job of it. If he wants to extend the metaphor (and he doesn’t, but it happens anyway) Dean’s more likely to be a nasty storm in his own right. He’s the deep, blood red you don’t want to see on the radar.

He flags down the bartender, who pours him another double. Dean downs half of it the minute it hits his hand.

“Working up to something or trying to forget?”

Dean blinks, tilts his head to glance over at the man who’s settled onto the stool beside him. Broad. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Definitely a few miles on him, though he carries it pretty well.

“Nice coat,” he says, and gives him a little up-nod. “What is that? It’s not Navy…”

The man smiles at him, “RAF.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Huh.”

“Captain Jack Harkness,” the guy says, and extends a hand. “And you are?”  
“Dean Winchester,” he says and offers his own hand to shake. “What’s an RAF Captain with an American accent doing in a dive in the middle of Indiana?”

“Enjoying his retirement.” He winks at Dean, then gestures to the bartender to bring two of whatever Dean’s drinking. “And you never answered my question.”

Dean huffs out a little laugh and swirls the ice in his glass. He should end the conversation, tell this Jack guy he’s barking up the wrong tree, but instead he shrugs. “Just tryin’ to maintain.”

“Yeah, I hear that.”

The bartender thumps two drinks down in front of Jack, who slides a credit card across the bar. He nudges the second glass over in Dean’s direction before raising his own.

“To surviving.”

Dean raises his glass and clinks it against Jack’s, then downs the last of his drink.

“So what about you? Just having a drink, or…?”

“Forgetting,” Jack says without hesitation. His eyes drop to his glass and his thumbs play along the rim. Those miles Dean got a hint of suddenly look a lot clearer. Whoever this guy is, he’s been through the shit in a big way.

They drink in silence for a while. Dean orders another round. Jack gives him a crooked half-smile when the drinks arrive, and finishes his first.

“So. Retirement. What’s that like?”

Jack chuckles. “Not as relaxing as I thought it would be. You spend what feels like an eternity trying to save the world, and then you to get out. But the world doesn’t stop. It doesn’t even slow down. And sure, maybe you can fix a few things —”

“But it’s never enough,” Dean says with a nod. “Whole thing is fucked, or the problem’s too big. And all your friends —”

“Are gone.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah.”

In his peripheral vision he can see Jack looking him over, checking him out, but also reassessing.

“A picture’d last longer, Captain.”

Jack laughs at that. “I don’t know. I’ve got a pretty good memory. Congratulations, by the way.”

“On?”

“The eyelashes. And that ass.”

Dean chokes a little and feels his face flush. “Jesus. Uh —”

“No pressure,” Jack says, and holds up a hand. “Just giving a compliment where it’s due.”

“Sure, sure.” He’s stammering a little bit. He bites his lip. He looks Jack in the eye, half by accident and half not. Shit, maybe more than half not. “Just, uh…kinda forward there.”

Jack grins. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“I don’t know about that.” Dean’s eyes flick over the room. Nobody’s looking. Or nobody cares. Doesn’t stop him feeling tense and nervous. “I mean, I don’t usually —”

“With guys. I get it.” Jack takes a sip of his drink and rests an elbow on the bar so he’s facing Dean. “Believe me, it wouldn’t be the first time I hit on a guy who played for another team.”

“No, see, I had kind of a gay thing at a bar once. Well, okay, it wasn’t exactly a gay thing. More like a guy sort of made me think we had a gay thing, and, uh—”

Jack raises his eyebrow and tilts his head. “You were disappointed?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Dean scoffs at himself, shakes his head. “Damn. That’s, uh…not sure I should’ve said that out loud.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says, and gestures for the bartender to bring another round. “Judgement-free zone. Though for the record, I can pretty much promise not to disappoint.”

And yeah, Dean’s eyes might do a little bit of wandering up Jack’s body. He looks solid. Masculine. Absolutely strong enough to give Dean a run for his money in a fight. Jack’s the kind of guy that should make him feel awkward or threatened, but instead, the attention makes Dean feel kind of warm in his skin, and maybe a little wound-up.

What Dean says is, “I’ll, uh, take that under advisement.” What he means is “Make a move and I’m in.”

# # #

Two rounds later, Dean is just about ready to lose his mind.

For all the sex and innuendo rolling off the guy, Jack’s also apparently damn good at keeping a respectable distance. It’s aggravating. He’s doing this thing, hovering just on the edge of available while they they tell each other stories about their jobs, but never quite taking that last step.

The fact that the details on Jack’s side of the conversation are obviously changed only makes Dean more curious.

“So wait,” Dean says, the faintest hint of a slur on his lips. “Why were you in the sewer again?”

“That’s where the squatters were living.”

“Yeah, but why you? I mean, RAF? Sewers of Cardiff? Sorta the opposite of airplanes.”

“Well,” Jack says, combing his fingers through his hair, “at a guess it’s probably the same reason you were in that abandoned house taking down those meth-heads.”

Dean tilts his head to the side, considers. “You know, retired RAF is one hell of a pretext, Captain Harkness.”

“Yeah?” Jack raises his eyebrows. “And which were you again, Agent? FBI or Homeland Security?”

“Oh, I get around,” he says, eyes fixed on Jack’s. Might be he slides off the edge of his bar stool to get a little closer.

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Wanna show me where you’re staying, Jack?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

# # #

Jack’s place turns out to be a nearly-bare efficiency apartment a couple of blocks away. It reminds Dean of the kinds of places he’d squatted with Sam and Bobby while they were hunting Dick Roman, except the power is on and it doesn’t smell like beer and piss.

Not that he’s paying a whole lot of attention to the decor with the way Jack’s got him pressed up against the wall. He’s got one hand in Dean’s hair, the other latched on to the front of his belt, and his mouth trailing down his throat. For his own part, Dean’s busy with the buttons of Jack’s shirt, having shoved his suspenders down over his shoulders.

“Who the hell wears suspenders with a belt, anyway?”

Jack just laughs, breath warm in the crook where Dean’s shoulder meets his neck, and slides his hand up from Dean’s belt to start working on his buttons.

Dean’s impressed by what he finds under Jack’s blue button-up: muscled arms, nice chest, contours clear through Jack’s plain white tee. He slides his hands over the cotton, up Jack’s shoulders then down his back, enjoying the way Jack pushes into his touch just slightly. When it’s his own shirt’s time to go, Dean lets Jack strip it away before pulling his own t-shirt over his head.

If he’s going to do this — and he’s definitely going to do this — he might as well go for it.

“Interesting tattoo,” Jack says as he brushes his fingertips over Dean’s chest. “Superstitious?”

“Not even a little.”

“Huh.” Jack runs his hands down Dean’s sides. “Job-related?”

“Mmm hm.” Dean pulls the hem of Jack’s t-shirt free and slides his hands inside. He scratches lightly and grins when Jack shudders. “You like that, huh?”

“I like a lot of things,” Jack says, and sinks to his knees. He unbuckles Dean’s belt, then undoes his fly, spreading it open before tugging down. Dean gasps lightly when cool air hits his bare skin. He’s not hard yet, but Jack gets him in hand straightaway. He runs his tongue up the length of Dean’s cock and then takes it into his mouth.

Jack’s eyes are closed, his face a mask of perfect bliss. He rests a hand on the back of Jack’s head and toys a little with his hair. Jack hums pleasure deep in his throat and the vibrations are freaking delicious.

“Shit,” Dean whispers, utterly transfixed as Jack works him, one hand at his base, lips and tongue up and down his shaft, lapping and sucking at the head of Dean’s dick until there isn’t a part of him that isn’t at attention.

Jack licks his lips. “Like that too, huh?”

“How could you tell?”

“Call it intuition,” Jack says, and gives Dean’s now-very-hard cock a squeeze. “Wanna move this to the bedroom?”

He stammers out a laugh. “Fuck yes.”

Jack stands, and Dean pulls his jeans up just enough to keep them on as he follows Jack down the hall.

The bedroom is as low-rent as the rest. There’s a full bed on a spartan frame with a slightly sagging mattress, though the sheets are pristine and the is bed made with military precision. Jack’s night stand is a pair of stolen milk crates with a lamp on top, a few books in the top crate, and a small cardboard box in the bottom one. The only other furnishing is an old steamer trunk tucked against the foot of the bed.

Dean crouches down to unlace his boots. He pulls them off, one at a time, then shoves out of his jeans and underwear. When he looks up, Jack is already waiting for him on the bed, shirtless and bootless, palming himself through his trousers.

Dean stares, trying to reconcile his desire to do this with the guy he tries to be. He comes up short.

“Second thoughts?” Jack asks. It jolts Dean back into the moment. 

“Honestly? Still trying to figure that out.” Dean rubs the back of his neck. He was already nude, but now he feels…

Well, naked.

Jack sits up on the bed, legs crossed. “Come over. Have a seat.”

He sits himself on the edge of the bed, in Jack’s reach but not overly close. The blanket beneath him is softer than he expects. Like Jack should have scratchy military wool instead of this dark green knitted thing. Dean glances down at his cock, not nearly so hard now, embarrassed that his nerves are getting the better of him.

“I’m going to rub your shoulders, okay?” Jack says, and shifts down the bed to get closer.

His warm hands slide up Dean’s arms and into place. Dean can feel how close Jack is, the heat from his body just barely perceptible against his back as he kneads and works Dean’s flesh with thumbs and fingers. The knots there loosen, and when Jack’s mouth presses against the side of his neck, Dean lets out a soft sigh.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and leans back against Jack. He turns his head and tilts it back to find Jack’s mouth with his own. It’s a lazy kiss, and Jack tastes like booze, but it goes a long way toward getting Dean’s body back into gear. Well, that and the fact that Jack’s arms are around him now, caressing him from chest to thigh.

Dean turns, takes Jack’s face in his hands and kisses him again. There’s no disguising the scratch of a five o’clock shadow, or the smell of Jack’s cologne. His bed isn’t fragrant with shampoo or perfume. It’s musky. It’s good. He eases down onto his side, face to face with Jack and presses up against him. He keeps one hand on Jack’s cheek, and lets the other roam down his neck to his collarbone, then lower still to tease across his nipple. When Jack arches, Dean grins, mouth-to-mouth, and takes the nub between thumb and forefinger.

Jack hisses, sucks in a breath, and digs his nails into Dean’s back.

“Like that, huh?”

“It’d be better with your teeth.”

“Yeah?”

Dean slides down the bed a little and circles Jack’s nipple with his tongue before he closes his lips around it to suck. Jack’s fingers are in his hair almost immediately, which he takes as a good sign. Sure enough, when he scratches over the nub with his teeth, those fingers tighten, and Jack presses against Dean’s thigh.

He bites, drags his teeth free, sucks. Jack grinds and whines, grips Dean’s hip for purchase. Dean’s own hips move of their own accord. He slips a leg between Jack’s, rubs against the fabric. His mouth finds Jack’s other nipple while he slides his hand between them to find Jack’s belt buckle.

It’s a trick, getting Jack’s fly undone with one hand, but once he does he realizes how not freaked out he is by the insistence with which Jack’s hard-on presses into his palm. If anything, it drives him harder, sends him traveling back up Jack’s body to nip and suck at his lips. He squeezes and rubs through the fabric of Jack’s boxers, teasing over the damp cloth at his head with the nail of his thumb.

Jack, for his part, is quick to shove out of the rest of his clothes after that.

Skin-on-skin with Jack is better still. He’s smooth-chested, with fine haired-thighs and either good genetics or a thing for manscaping. Dean feels like a rougher thing, with his freckles and his scars, but if Jack minds it doesn’t show. They press and rub, bodies close, hands taking in every plane and curve in reach. Jack’s hands squeeze and cup Dean’s ass and he lets out a sigh of pleasure. 

Goddamn, it’s good to be touched like this.

“Roll over,” Jack says. He sits up and leans over the edge of the bed in the general direction of the bottom milk crate. “Back up against me.”

Dean turns, but watches over his shoulder. He’s relieved to see the condoms — familiar, safe — but he’s still not sure he’ll be into this.

Jack must catch that memo. “Don’t worry,” he says, flashing him another one of those grins that Dean’s starting to think might be illegal in certain states. “It’ll be good. And if it isn’t, we can do something else. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” He settles back onto the bed under Jack’s hands, lets himself be caressed and kissed from behind. Jack touches him everywhere, light and gentle. He presses kisses into Dean’s shoulders and neck. He ghosts his fingers over Dean’s cock, strokes him, squeezes until Dean moans and rocks his hips along with the motion.

“You’re a wonder,” Jack whispers against his skin as he takes his hand away and eases Dean’s legs apart just a little. There’s a click — the lube — and then Jack’s fingers are back, slick and gentle, trailing up from a spot just behind his balls, slicking him up before he pushes inside. “So good.”

His body moves to take Jack’s finger in before Dean can think, but once his brain catches up with him he agrees: this is awesome. He feels kind of high, and a little bit helpless, but mostly he just feels turned on and ready. Dean rides the feeling like he’d ride a good trip, eyes half-open, accepting bliss.

Two fingers intensifies the feeling, pushes him higher. He can feel his body challenge it a little, his muscles clenching by instinct at being breached, but Jack eases him through with more soft touches, more lube, and the warm press of his body along Dean’s back. 

“You ready for more?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

Jack’s fingers slide out. Dean hears the condom, the click of the lube again. 

“C’mere. Turn over.”

Dean turns to face Jack, confused. “Don’t I have to be, uh…you know. The other way?”

“Nope. Here,” Jack says, and tugs his arm. “Climb on.”

Jack guides Dean up onto his lap. Cowgirl, Dean would call it, except he’s a dude. He wonders if it’s cowboy with guys, or if cowboy is something else. Either way, he figures he’ll give it a shot.

He licks his lips and lifts up, scoots back. Feels Jack’s cock pressed against him, hard, slick, and eager.

He sinks down slow, eyes closed, clasping Jack’s hand where it rests on his thigh. His mouth opens in a silent moan. This is every bit as good as Jack’s fingers, but twice as intense. He doesn’t open until he’s filled, sat flush against Jack’s lap. He blinks, gazes down at Jack in amazement.

“Good?”

Dean nods, wide eyed.

“Moving’s even better.”

Jack arches under him, slow and sinful, and Dean’s hips rock along by instinct. It takes him a few tries to figure out how to match Jack’s motions, but once he does, everything else kind of snaps into place. It helps that Jack lets him ride at his own pace at first. Once Dean’s got his bearings, though, they both ditch the sweetness and get down to business.

For starters, Jack might be fucking him, but Dean rides him like he’s in charge. Jack pushes too fast? Dean pulls back or grinds down hard. Too slow and Dean speeds his pace until Jack catches the rhythm.

Jack, meanwhile, is all hands, greedy for every inch of skin.

Dean sure as hell doesn’t mind. It’s rare for a woman to get this handsy, and he’s going to take every last bit of it he can. He bends and twists, baring his chest and arms and throat. Anything Jack wants to touch, he gets.

He moves like a dancer. Like a snake. Like the rhythm line from “When The Levee Breaks,” insistent and tranced-out, pouring out a stream of “yes” and “fuck” and “deeper” while Jack’s palms and fingernails play him like a goddamn orchestra.

He’s sweat slick and his thighs are aching by the time one of those hands finally wraps around Dean’s dick. Dean almost swats Jack’s hand away, but it’s not like he’s going to be good for much longer. He’s been slow-building to climax practically since Jack slid inside of him, the sensation pooling and tightening in his gut for an age. His balls are tight and his ass…fuck, he doesn’t even know how to describe that sensation yet.

“You gonna make me come, Jack?” he purrs. “Want me to shot a load all over you?” 

Dean bites his lip and grins at the way Jack’s breath hitches. It’s hot, and it definitely doesn’t make him want to stop.

“Gonna paint you. Gonna come on your dick. Gonna—” Jack slams up into him, takes over the rhythm. “Holy fuck, yes. Goddamn. Fucking yeah, just like that.”

He grabs Jack’s shoulders for support, practically collapses when the wave of his orgasm breakings over him. He makes a sound, tries to make it words, gives up in favor of letting go as Jack draws out every last shudder and cry and spasm Dean can manage.

Panting, he slumps forward. Jack wraps arms around him, pistons his hips. Dean rides him out, dizzy and sore, too stunned and blissed to worry about the comedown.

Hell, being fucked out and used like this is actually pretty amazing. Like, he doesn’t even have to do anything but shiver and make sounds in his throat, and and Jack’s still getting off on it.

When Jack comes, he grips Dean so hard that he actually pops Dean’s back.

“Shit,” Jack rasps. “You okay?”

Dean laughs. “Okay? Fuck, I think you just gave me free chiropractic. Been trying to work that out for days.”

Jack’s head falls back against the pillow. “Okay.”

They tangle together on the bed after Dean climbs off of him. They’re sweaty and gross, and Jack’s handkerchief can only do so much, but It’s a good afterglow. Not romantic, but friendly and warm.

The place where Dean’s guilt and anxiety should be is curiously empty.

“So I’m guessing you’re not staying in town for long,” Jack says eventually.

“Nope. Another day, maybe two.”

Jack nods. “Used to live that way. Long time ago.”

“What changed?”

“Met the right couple of people. Lost ‘em. Got stuck. Made a life.” Jack traces circles on Dean’s ribs with his thumb. “Wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t bad.”

“You didn’t stay.”

“Didn’t last.”

Dean sighs. “Been there.”

“Want some unsolicited advice?”

“Eh, sure,” Dean says and stretches his legs. The sky outside the window is starting to lighten.

“Do it again. Every chance you get. Hang on to those people when you find them. Life’s too short.”

Dean frowns.

“I’m not talking about settling down,” Jack says, low and serious. “I mean if you find something, you grab on. Even if it’s crazy. Trust me on this.”

Dean sighs, sits up. “I should go. Thanks for the, uh…you know. The sex.”

“Anytime. Seriously.” Jack squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “Want me to walk you out?”

“Nah, I’ve got this.” Dean slides out of bed, retrieves his briefs from the floor and steps into them. His jeans go on next. He picks up his boots and socks. He still feels slick and a little achy. It’s not a bad feeling. Just a new flavor of sex-sore. “So, uh. See you around, Jack.”

"Yeah." 

They don’t bother with phone numbers. It is what it is.

# # #

Dean finishes getting dressed in the entryway and hurries out into the blue twilight of morning. He checks his phone while he walks. No messages.

On a whim, Dean opens up his contacts. He scrolls through and hovers his thumb over Cas’ name.

He stares at it for a long time, then shoves his phone back in his pocket.


End file.
